‘But then,’ said the first man, a broad-shouldered fellow with a dark forked beard, ‘we are not planning to buy him, sir.’
‘I understand,’ said the Once-Knight slowly. ‘But he is not for stealing, either. Now be off with you!’
‘That is not friendly, sir, and you risk much with such an attitude. Look around you - there are four of us, all armed and not one of us drunk.’
‘I’ve offered you the jug,’ the Once-Knight told him. Pulling his sword clear of its scabbard, he hauled himself upright by gripping the trunk of the oak. ‘Now be warned,’ he said, his voice slurred, ‘I am a Knight of the Gabala. To face me in battle is to die.’
‘Well, my boys,’ jeered the first man, ‘here is an interesting sight - a regular Knight - a Gabala Knight, no less. Strange that he should wear no armour save that dented helm. Even stranger that he should be drunk. I would not doubt your word, sir, but was strong drink not frowned upon by your Order?’
‘It was,’ admitted the Once-Knight. ‘We were...’ he struggled for the word.
‘Pure?’ offered the man.
‘That’s it! Pure. Noble Knights.’ He laughed. ‘Noble like gods! And proud. Proud. Yes. All gone now. Gone away,’ he said, waving his hand in the air. ‘Off to fight the Demon Lord.’
‘But you don’t appear to have gone with them, sir?’
‘No. I was... frightened. The Black Gate. Ollathair conjured it and I would not pass it. I couldn’t, you see. Something inside just... snapped. We were all mounted and ready - and the Gate opened. The others, Edrin, Pateus... they all rode in. But not me. No. Not I. All gone!’
‘You are - and forgive the bluntness of my language, sir - a coward, then?’
‘Yes, yes. That is me: the coward-Knight. And yet the truth does not hurt the way it once did. Are you sure you will not share my jug?’
‘Thank you, but no. We will, however, relieve you of your horse and your purse.’
‘I do wish you would not attempt this,’ said the Once-Knight. ‘We have known each other but a short time and already I like you.’
‘Kill him,’ said the man and the other three drew their knives and rushed forward while the leader walked towards the stallion. The Once-Knight rolled his wrists and the longsword hissed as it swept up, sunlight flashing on the blade. The first man tried to halt his charge, but it was too late and the blade sang down to slice his jugular before smashing his collarbone and opening a great wound all the way to his lungs. He was dead before he hit the ground. The blade slid clear and slashed back in a reverse cut that opened the second man’s belly clean through to his backbone; he alone had time to scream. The youngster had circled behind the Knight and now he leapt forward with knife raised. Without turning the Once-Knight dropped to his knee, spinning his sword so that the blade was between his right arm and his side. The boy did not see the danger until he was almost upon the kneeling man and the sword clove into his chest, dissecting his heart.
The Once-Knight dragged his blade clear and stood. In the several seconds that the fight had lasted, the robbers’ leader had reached Kuan and grabbed for the reins. The stallion reared, his front hooves cracking into the thief s face so that he stumbled back and fell heavily. A shadow moved across him and he looked up.
‘It was a foolish move, and your friends have suffered for it.’ The man rolled to his knees, eyes wide in disbelief as he stared at the bodies.
‘My son!’ he screamed, scrambling to the boy. ‘You’ve killed my son.’ For some seconds he cradled the body, then stood and drew his own knife. The Once-Knight said nothing, for he knew no words could dissuade him. With a piercing scream the robber raced towards him.
The longsword sang out...
Sober now, the Once-Knight climbed into the saddle. ‘Come, Kuan, this place is no longer beautiful.’
Since that day he had avoided towns, settlements and even lonely cabins until he reached the Duchy of Mactha. If Ollathair was anywhere it would be here, in his homeland. The Once-Knight drew his sword and gazed into the ruby pommel. ‘Ollathair,’ he whispered. The jewel shimmered and darkened, an image forming at its heart; there, by a well, stood the Armourer.
And armed men were moving towards him, their swords bright in the moonlight...
‘No!’ shouted the Once-Knight. But the image faded.
Errin rose from his bath and stepped into the thick robe held out for him by Ubadai. His body glowing from the hot water, he moved to the window and felt the freshness of the night breeze. Ubadai poured a goblet of watered wine and carried it to his master, but Errin waved it away.
‘No drink tonight,’ he said.
‘Something troubles you, Lord?’
‘Why do you stay in my service, Ubadai? I freed you two years ago and you could go wherever you want -back to the Steppes; across the sea to Cithaeron, or into the east. Why do you stay?’
Ubadai shrugged, his dark, slanted eyes showing no emotion. ‘You should drink. Drink very much. Fall down, maybe.’
‘I do not think so. Go. Leave me.’
Errin watched as the Nomad turned on his heel and strode from the room. He gazed down at the wine and shivered. Having closed the window, he walked to the far side of the room where a log-fire blazed in a stone hearth. Dragging a heavy chair to the fireside, he sat and stared into the flames.
The meeting with the Seer, Okessa, haunted him -forcing its way into his mind again and again. He had never liked the man, whose shaven head and curved nose gave the impression of a vulture. And his eyes always seemed to shine with a malevolent gleam. No, Errin did not like Okessa.
‘It is rare that you take the time to consult me,’ the Seer had said as Errin entered his study.
‘Our paths seldom cross,’ Errin replied, gazing at the shelves and the tomes placed there. ‘You have some interesting books. Perhaps I could borrow some?’
‘Of course, my Lord. I did not know you were expert in the Dead Languages.’
‘I am not.’
‘Then, sadly, the books would be of no value. How can I help you?’
Errin sat in a high-backed chair opposite the Seer, who carefully laid his quill on the desk, pushing aside the book on which he had been working.
‘I have come to seek your advice. A youth - a runaway - shouted a word. I think it was some kind of spell casting, for his running speed increased. I wounded him, but he escaped to the Great Forest.’
‘And the word?’
‘Ollathair.’
‘You are sure?’
‘I believe so. My man, Ubadai, heard it also. What does it signify?’
Okessa leaned back and stroked his long nose with the index finger of his right hand, his pale eyes fixed on Errin. ‘A dead wizard - he shouted the name of a dead wizard. Are you sure his speed increased? Could not fear have spurred him to greater urgency?’
‘It is possible — but only just. I have never seen a man run faster and, as you know, I was Master of the Games last autumn in Furbolg. No, I think the word was one of Power. Is that possible?’
‘All things are possible, Lord Errin. Some... artefacts... of Ollathair’s survive, I believe. The King beyond Cithaeron has a golden falcon, and King Ahak possesses a Gabalic sword which can cut through anything, even steel. But these are priceless. How would a runaway slave obtain such an artefact?’
Okessa stood and moved to the bookshelves, drawing down a leather-covered tome. Returning to his seat, he opened the book and carefully began to turn the pages.
‘Ollathair,’ he said at last. ‘Yes, here it is. The son of Calibal, fifteenth Armourer to the Knights of the Gabala. Ollathair was apprentice to his father in 1157 at the age of thirteen. He succeeded his father in 1170, so, he would have been twenty-six then. In 1190 the Knights vanished from history and we are left with merely legend, the most enduring of which is that they rode into Hell to destroy the essence of all evil. Ollathair was arrested as a traitor the following year, and was put to death in the dungeons of Furbolg. There is also a brief
description of his interrogation. No, I do not think you heard the boy correctly.’
‘Could there be more than one Ollathair?’ Errin
asked.
‘If there was, my Lord, be assured I would have heard of him. Was there anything else?’
‘No, my Lord Seer, but I am grateful for your time | and effort,’ said Errin, rising.
‘Please, do not leave quite so soon: there is a matter I wish to discuss.’ Errin sat down. ‘It is the question of your household, my Lord. You have some six Nomad .-, retainers, I believe?’
‘Yes - and all loyal, both to myself and to the crown.’
‘The crown sees it differently. The King is about to issue an edict that all Nomads be detained and sent to Gar-aden.’
‘It is a desert!’
‘You question the King’s wishes?’ asked Okessa softly.
‘It is not for me to question my sovereign; it was merely an observation. However, the Nomads in my employ are not slaves and they are free to travel where they wish.’
‘Not so,’ said Okessa, smiling. ‘No Nomad can now enjoy citizenship, and all are under the King’s express command to gather at Gar-aden. Those who do not obey are to be hunted down and slain, their goods and chattels taken by the crown or the crown’s agents. In Mactha the agent will, of course, be the Duke.’
‘And how, may I ask, are we to describe who is a Nomad? They have been among us for hundreds of years; it is said that many noble families have Nomad blood.’
‘You know of such families?’ Okessa asked, leaning forward, his eyes gleaming.
‘Not with any certainty.’
‘Then be careful of what you say. It is decreed that the Nomads are a tainted people and they must be removed from the kingdom.’
‘Thank you for this advance intelligence,’ said Errin, forcing a smile. ‘Be assured I shall act upon it.’
‘I hope that you do. By the way, this matter of Ollathair intrigues me. Tell me, would you know of any craftsman or landholder around Mactha with only one good eye?’
‘I do not make it my business to mix with the lower orders, Lord Seer, but I shall have enquiries made for you.’
‘Thank you. Would you treat the matter with some urgency-?’-
‘I will indeed.’
Errin had gone straight to the Duke, who took him to his private apartments in the west tower.
‘It is not for us to question a royal decree,’ the Duke pointed out. ‘And let us not forget the question of increased wealth. You and I are in a fortunate position. Neither of us has any Nomad blood in our family lines; we can only benefit.’
Errin had nodded. He had always known the Duke was a hard and cruel man, but he had believed there was also a certain nobility of spirit in him. Now as he looked into the Duke’s dark eyes he saw only greed. The Duke of Mactha stood and smiled. Taller than Errin - who had once been his page - he was a handsome man approaching forty years of age, with a carefully cut and combed forked beard. ‘Do not fret about a few peasants, Errin. Life is too short.’
‘I am thinking of my manservant, Ubadai. He has been a faithful companion - and he saved my life. You remember? The bear hunt, when my horse fell? The beast would have torn me to pieces, but Ubadai leapt from his horse to the bear’s back.’
‘A brave move, but is that not what we expect from our followers? Give him money and send him to Gar-aden. Now, let us move to happier matters. The King is coming to Mactha in the spring and I want you to be the Lord of the Feast.’
‘Thank you, my Lord. You do me great honour.’
‘Nonsense, Errin, you are one of the finest organizers I know. The worst swordsman and the finest cook!’ The Duke had chuckled, and Errin had bowed and left the room.
Now, here before the fire, his heart was heavy and his mind full of foreboding.
Okessa was a snake, and it would be long before Errin would forget the malevolence in his eyes as he had asked, ‘You know of such families?’ It was that alone which had saved the one-eyed Craftsman, Ruad Ro-fhessa. Errin would never deliver any man into the hands of the Lord Seer. But where did that leave him?
Lost in thought, he did not notice Ubadai approaching. ‘Food,’ said the servant, placing a silver tray beside Errin’s chair.
‘I am not hungry.’
Ubadai looked long into Errin’s pale face. ‘Some bad thing, hey? No drink. No food.’
‘You must leave Mactha... tonight. Take all Nomad servants with you and make for the forest. Beyond it is the sea. Get as far from the realm as you can.’
‘Why?’
‘To stay is to die. All Nomads are to be herded to Gar-aden. It is a place of death, Ubadai; I can feel it. Prepare the servants.’
‘It is done,’ Ubadai assured him.
Ruad adjusted the silvered mirror and stropped his shaving blade against the leather hanging from the wall. Satisfied with the edge, he wetted his face with warmed water and carefully cut away the black and grey stubble.
The face he saw was one that merited a beard, he thought: a heavy, all-disguising beard, to cover the lantern jaw and mask the gash of a mouth with its crooked teeth.
‘You are uglier now than ever,’ he told his reflection. Returning to his table he pushed aside the remains of his breakfast and removed the bronze eye-patch, polishing it with a soft cloth until it gleamed. Replacing it, he poured himself a goblet of apple juice and watched the coming dawn, the shadows shrinking back from the trees outside his window.
He had been happier here than at the Citadel, for the old fortress held too many memories of his father. Calibal had been a stern parent to the son he had not wanted and the boy - ugly and awkward - could do nothing to please him. Every day of his youth had been spent trying to win his father’s love. At last he had succeeded in the Colours, proving himself a greater magician than Calibal; then his father’s indifference had turned to hatred, and he put the boy from him. Even when he was dying, he would not allow his son to sit by his death-bed.
Poor Calibal, thought Ruad. Poor, lonely Calibal.
He stood and forced the memories from his mind. For three hours he worked on his designs, then wandered out into the meadow beyond the woods to sit and enjoy the autumn sunshine. Soon the dark clouds would gather, the north wind howl and the blizzards cover the mountains with freezing ice and snow. Already the leaves were turning to gold, the flowers fading.
A distant figure caught his eye, making slow progress up the hill. Ruad waited as Gwydion approached.
‘Lazing in the sunshine?’ said the newcomer, his lined face red with the exertion of the climb, his white shoulder-length hair shining with sweat.
‘You should buy yourself a horse,’ responded Ruad, rising to his feet. ‘You’re too old for mountain walking.’
The old man smiled, took a deep breath and leaned on his staff. ‘I have not the energy to argue,’ he admitted, ‘but a glass of your apple juice will revive me.’
Ruad led him into the house and poured him a drink, while Gwydion sat down at the table.
‘How is life treating you?’ the old man asked.
‘I do not complain,’ said Ruad. ‘You?’
‘There is always work for a Healer - even one with fading powers.’
Ruad cut several slices of dark bread and a wedge of cheese, passing them to Gwydion. While the man ate Ruad walked to the doorway, scanning the road to Mactha. All was still.
‘Okessa is seeking news of a one-eyed craftsman,’ said Gwydion as Ruad returned.
‘I do not doubt it. I made a mistake.’
‘You gave magic to the boy, Lug?’
‘Yes.’
‘That was not wise.’
‘Wisdom should be tempered with compassion,’ observed Ruad. ‘Did you come all this way to warn me?’
‘Yes and no,’ replied Gwydion. ‘I would have sent a message, but there is a pressing matter you might help me to resolve.’
‘You speak of the change in the Colours?’
‘Then it is
not all in my mind? Good,’ said Gwydion. ‘So my powers are not fading as fast as I believed?’
‘No. The Red is swelling, the other Colours fading. Green is suffering the worst, for it is the furthest.’
‘What is the cause?’ Gwydion asked. ‘I know that the Colours shift and dance, but never in such an extreme way. The Green is now a shimmering thread - I am hard pressed to heal a sick calf. ‘
Ruad moved to the hearth, cleared away the ash and prepared a new fire. ‘I do not have any answers, Gwydion. There is an imbalance; the Colours have lost their harmony.’
‘Has this, to your knowledge, happened before? I have never heard of such a thing.’
‘Nor I. Perhaps it will right itself.’
‘You think so?’ asked Gwydion. Ruad shrugged. ‘There is an ugly feeling in the air,’ whispered the old man. ‘In Mactha there have been three murders in the last week. There is fear, Ruad.’
‘It is the influence of the Red; it stirs the emotions. I have felt it too - an impatience, an anger, that affects my work. Lately I have been unable to use the Blue, so I have resorted to the Black, but even that is fading.’
The old man shivered as a cold wind blew through the open doorway. ‘Light the fire, Ruad. These ageing bones cannot take the cold.’
Lifting a thick branch from the hearth, Ruad ran his fingers along its length. Fire leapt instantly from the wood and he thrust it into the prepared tinder. ‘The Red, of course, still has its uses,’ he said, adding fuel to the blaze.
Gwydion grinned. ‘Not for Healing, from which I earn my meagre income.’
Ruad closed the door and pulled two chairs before the fire. Gwydion seated himself, holding out his hands to the dancing flames, and Ruad joined him.
‘You will, of course, stay the night? You are most welcome.’
‘Thank you,’ Gwydion accepted.
‘What other news have you?’
The Healer shivered. ‘None that is good, I fear. A traveller from Furbolg says the city is in the grip of terror — a killer is stalking the streets. So far the bodies of eleven young women have been found, and five young men. The King has promised to hunt down the killer, but as yet there is no sign of any success. Added to this are rumours concerning the Nomads. More than a thousand were taken to Gar-aden to what was described as a settlement. I have it on good authority...’ Gwydion shuddered. ‘Strange how fire does not warm me as once it did. Do you think I am close to death, Ruad?’